Bread and Circuses
by LSDandKizuki
Summary: The rebellion of Katniss Everdeen brought Panem down, and brought the remnants of America back. Now, after a century of complete isolation from the rest of the world, America is finally coming back. Warning: Dark imagery and gore inside. Rated T for now, but will most likely go up because of later chapters. Better than it sounds!
1. Prologue

**Bread and Circuses**

_**Prologue**_

It was hard to make out the figures of soldiers through the dust and fog, but easy to tell that none of them were alive. There was not an irregular movement before him, not a single stir out of place in the softly falling particles in the air. There was not a scream – though there had been many beforehand – and America sat alone, lost, and utterly disgusted.

This was what it had come to. This was what he got for getting involved with Europe's stupid religion wars. This one had been going on for a year already – the Hyper-Christians against everyone else. He detested it – the Hyper-Christians had guns for brains, and they were winning fast. They came in every country, but had only just started to fight properly in Europe. Stupid, utterly ridiculous.

_This had to be the last one. _Of course. How could anything else happen? First Africa had fallen – victim to that blasted Russia – every single country on that landmass gone in a flash. Russia quickly followed suit – victim of his own ideals and rebellion. That land was nothing more than a group of anarchists who called themselves the Muscovites. Russia's new name. It made America sick to his stomach, but at least they wouldn't be bothered by him anymore. Then Canada... His own brother...

The dust particles started to move. A figure was moving toward America, and America did not need to call out for him to tell who he was. No one else carried so much weaponry at once. The man stopped before him, and raised one of his guns. America did the same.

Spain was not the only one who had changed. America himself was starting to divide, a crueller system than democracy starting to take place. Districts, they were called, he thought... A Capitol in the middle of all of it. He really didn't like it, but it was a perfect system. He could not fault it.

No one _needed _religion. Europe was stupid.

"Was it worth it, Spain?" he called. "All this. All this shit for religion?" The changed man before America shot once into the air.

"It's Toro now, _amigo,_" he called, green eyes glinting and dark hair tousled. "And yes, I think you will find it was worth it."

**Author's notes: **

**This is just an idea I had about the Hunger Games – what are all the other countries doing at the time? Hopefully this story will end up as cool as I visualise it to be.**

**I hope you like it! Please review so I can improve in the later chapters. I can't promise you cookies if you do, but then, neither can anyone. **


	2. On the Other Side of the World

CHAPTER ONE – _On the other side of the world_

The air was wet, and sticky. The trees were starting to fall again, and the wind whistled through every being that moved in the dark streets. It was another one of those days, those days when you really did just want to stay at home and dream of better times, and it was infuriatingly one of those days when you couldn't. It was, after all, division day, when all the sad remnants of living and breathing nations would come together and form something that looked vaguely like a World meeting.

Or, at least, the sad remnants of living and breathing nations who could make it.

Right now, a nation who could make it (just about) was trudging through the sticky streets. He absently wondered what had happened this time. A riot, perhaps? Some fighting? The stickiness could well be blood, but so much time had passed that the nation no longer cared what happened to his people. He ran a tired hand through his dirty blonde hair, and sighed. It was so early in the morning, but he had to be up so he could be in time for the meeting, with the long journey he had ahead of him. It was simply inconvenient.

_Why does it have to be in bloody Australia? _He thought, irritably, kicking a stray can out of the way as he walked, hunched, toward the nearest working port.

Some things just don't ever change. In a world which has been subject to the hardest, most horrible changes of all history, some things – like England's stubbornness – just don't change.

England stepped into the port, and entered his destination into the small keypad on the wall. A little claw leapt out, and opened, to be immediately filled with money. He was fairly rich – not half as rich as times gone by, but rich enough – and he was getting by. He hoped Australia was doing OK, and France. He knew there were troubles in Japan. There were some other Europeans too... Italy, he thought... Germa- no, _Eldheinman... _Baltica and Poland... That was it. Africa had been completely wiped out, and no one bothered to overtake it. It was never a particularly strong continent. Even the natural beauty was gone now.

There were others, others who would not ever make it, but England preferred not to think about them. The port doors closed. It was time to go to Australia.

_I don't like ports, _England thought, sitting in the small and uncomfortable seat which jiggled annoyingly. Ports were, unfortunately a necessary form of transport – no man was awake on his island, so there was no chance of taking a plane. Ports were much slower, and less practical, and they very often smelled. Not to mention that there was no entertainment whatsoever – not even a crummy magazine.

_Cheer up, _he thought to himself. _At least you have some form of transport. _

About five hours later – at which point England was sure he was going to die of boredom and cramp – the doors opened, and England was met with a wave of heat, a dazzling sunlight, and a great deal of envy.

Australia was very, very lucky. England used to think that living so far away from everywhere else was a burden, and caused horrible isolation, but now, after everything, Australia and New Zealand had successfully evaded most of the problems. For the most part, they lived as normal – not having to work until they were numb just to keep every mouth fed – and their natural states were so superior to England's own.

Once upon a time England had had some forests and natural beauty, but the desperation to keep civilisation going had caused that to diminish. He occasionally wished he had stayed with nature and his old friends (oh, how much he missed them!) but then, remembering the Europeans, he wrinkled his nose. _It's good to be a gentleman. _

England stepped out of the port, and was immediately greeted by a young (Ha!) and happy girl with bunches.

"England! So glad you could make it, mate!" Australia really was lucky. Who in the world could maintain that cheer?

England smiled weakly, and shook Australia's hand. "Good to see you well, Australia."

Australia laughed, and patted England on the back, apologised for being unable to help him in his situation. Then she directed England to the building only seven meters away, where the meeting was being held. For once, he forgot his problems and smiled. There was still some sanity left in the world.

There were already some nations inside. France sat near the head of the table; Baltica and Japan were conversing a little. Poland sat beside them, unnaturally quiet. England wanted nothing to do with either of them, so he slumped into the chair next to France, who immediately turned toward him.

"Angleterre... How are you, my friend...?" For some reason, the utterly familiar voice set England's mind at ease a little. This was a man he could properly talk to. He and France had been in it together since they had known each other, after all... Even when they had fought...

England gave a small grimace. "Not good at all. And I imagine that you are in a similar state." France nodded.

"Oui, oui. I am not even sure what the word 'economy' means anymore." Some weak laughter.

_Try. Make it how it used to be. You know what to do. _

"Well, you never were too interested in the English dictionary, were you? Frog." Suddenly the situation was completely smooth. All it had taken was a little insult.

England leaned back in his chair a little, and his eyes met France's. "Something happened last night, at my place. A riot, I think. The air stank of blood. Not one person awake in London. Not the first time it's happened. I'm not even sure I care anymore."

France smiled lightly. He no longer kept himself the way he had, and his lust and love was no longer his most prominent feature. Yet, like England has remained the stubborn old grump he is for all these years, France has never stopped being the sharp and beautiful pervert he always was. "We are going to have to face it, England. We are both ending. There is no way we will continue like this forever."

England nodded, sadly. "We've been here a while," he admitted. "And if we do end, at least we will still be ourselves. Not horribly changed like Toro, or those Muscovites, and Wei Ya... And Panem..."

France snorted. "Who says they were horribly changed?" he asked.

England wanted to get angry with France. He wanted to punch him like he would have done, a century ago. But he knew that neither of them could stand it, perhaps France more than him, that alongside all the friends that they had lost, they had lost the minds of some as well.

First Toro. The Kingdom of Passion was squashed very easily by the age of hyper-Christians (thank God England had escaped that fate) and turned from the kind, flirty and bubbly character to the military-driven war maniac who was avoided by everyone – even Romano. (Romano had not come out of the situation unscathed either; it is fair to point out.) Then Russia. Russia finally snapped – his people having had enough of the oppressive society and constant change between democracy and communism – and was quickly reduced to a heap of anarchy and savagery. The population was dwindling rapidly, but no one cared to help them. Soon they would be completely gone, or simply a scattering of lost tribesmen, desperately clawing out for civilisation, not unlike Wei Ya. Wei Ya – China, as he used to call himself, poor chap - was a mess, a mess that was contributed to very much by his communist state, his closeness to Russia, and Japan. Sure, everyone at the time was some sort of mess, but no one had gone through the terrible attacks he received from Japan. He distanced himself completely, not a sound came from him, he never attended any meetings; he was said to be occasionally found, by legend, floating through the plains in his ruined cities, a panda at his side, weeping uncontrollably. Japan never once apologised for what he did – but then, he never apologised for something he meant to do. No one spoke of the incident between either of them, because no one wished to have a katana stuck in their throat.

And then there was Panem.

"Alright, everybody..." Australia walked into the room, accompanied by Eldheinman with Italy and Romano. Several other Europeans – Switzerland, Belgium, a couple of Nordics – followed. An ugly look flashed across England's face, for one second, as they seated themselves. How they had gone out of their way to prove themselves completely apart from civilisation – tribal marks on their faces, small symbolic necklaces and the like! _Seriously, _England thought, drily, _I swear that France and I are the only sane Europeans left. _

"First, I'd like to just say how wonderful it is to have all our mates here at my place... I understand that there are various issues occurring, so these meetings are important so we can solve the World's Problems!"

A few laughs echoed around the room. Eldheinman put his head in his hands.

"Ja," he muttered, face dark with camouflage paint. "That seems like a joke now, doesn't it?"

Australia looked around indignantly for a moment, before speaking again. "Well, since I actually don't have much to complain about... Is there anything anyone has to say?"

Everyone had something to say. Everyone had problems that they wished to share with everybody, be it economy, the environment, or just about any other nation who was annoying them slightly.

"You all know, I am sure how important money is right now, and it would really be helpful if you lot could stop asking for it from my place, I barely have enough to feed myself."

"That's total bull. None of you know real hunger! None of you!"

"Baltica keeps looking at me funny. He's plotting something, I know he is!"

These meetings always ended up like this. They always had. And these ones would go on for long enough so that the nations could feel at home once again. Sometimes the arguing felt so real that a few would forget where they were.

"And I tell you, Spain _should _be a part of the G8!"

"The G8 doesn't exist anymore, France. And neither does Spain."

"Oh. Of course."

Japan raised his head among all the discussion. He, as usual, kept his mouth shut during impolite argument, and would open it at just the right moment, to stir up whatever emotion he felt. Manipulation was his tool. England eyed him curiously to see what he had in mind today.

"I thought it would be important to note," he said, quietly, his dark eyes meeting England's, "That Panem is having the same amount, if not more troubles that we are having right now. He is currently dealing with an uprising."

_Oh, damn. Of all the bloody things to say..!_

At the mention of Panem, the room fell silent. No one asked Japan to repeat. They all heard what he said. It was only Poland who eventually spoke in response.

"Oh, really? Well, that's hardly surprising, I mean, I would _definitely _rebel if all my kids were being forced to kill each other."

Baltica and some other European nations tittered at that. England scowled deeply at all of them. He dearly hoped that the next argument did not feature Panem as the subject. However, Poland did not seem finished.

"But really, guys, Panem is not the big problem. I have been trying to say this for a while now." Poland's half lidded green eyes became wide and excited. "My boss was hanging around that huge wide space where the Muscovites lived and he heard some pretty interesting stuff to do with them."

Everyone was all ears.

"He said that Muscovites is forming _armies. _He said that he's planning to become a super-power again." Poland sat back in his chair. "Cool or what?"

There was a long silence. Eventually Baltica said, in his hybrid accent of Lithuanian, Latvian and Estonian – "How – how can you say that? And how come you didn't tell me this before?" Poland raised his arms up in apology.

"You were so busy talking to Japan over there! And come on, they're all anarchists, it's not as if they'll just attack –"

_BAM. _

The sudden noise made everyone jump in their seats, and turn toward the source. The wall that stood behind Japan and Australia now sported a huge crack in the centre, as if someone with incredible strength had just tried to punch their way through. This theory became more certain, as several more bangs sounded, and the crack deepened, widened, before giving way completely, and opening a hole in the wall. Several nations stood up, and backed away. Those who didn't recoiled visibly.

A long, rusted, and bloodied faucet hung, suspended in the hole – apparently the cause of it – and was held by a large, cold hand. A dark figure stood on the outside of the building, where he had smashed the pipe into the wall, and he stepped in, bringing the weapon back to his side.

Russia had always looked a mess. His scarf was dyed pink from the endless amount of bloodshed it had gone through, and would never wash out. His hands were eternally cold and shaking. His hair was thin and scraggly. According to Baltica – or, at least, the Lithuanian part of Baltica – he had looked even worse when he was a child, under Tartar's rule, his clothes all torn and his face sunken in.

But no mess could look worse than what Russia looked like now. His hair was far longer; it fell in thin, silver tangles. His clothes were tattered, and red. Scars, scratches and bleeding gashes stood out on his face, he stood with a slump, and yet he still beamed a huge and benign smile. That smile, England was sure, would never leave, even in death.

The Muscovites walked – well, drifted, more like – into the building, and surveyed the inhabitants. The nations, despite themselves, drew back, or flinched. _How odd,_ they were all thinking. _Even when he is reduced to a heap of anarchists, his very being radiates fear and power. _Muscovites noticed Australia among everyone who stood – her perfect blush blanched slightly now – and nodded, politely. He recognised his hostess. The room remained completely devoid of sound, everyone too shocked even to move their feet, as what used to be the great Soviet Union advanced upon them all. A part of them – a truly wistful part – assured them that this was a World Meeting – Muscovites could not harm them here...

It choked everybody when the man with the pipe spoke, with his heavily laced Russian accent.

"I knew you would be here. I noticed Poland leaving with Baltica, so I figured that the best place for a World Meeting would be here. So calm, so free of damage."

Not a word was uttered in response. England, who had remained in his seat, would not be frightened by anything or anyone. He kept his jaw steady, and his thick eyebrows lowered. Muscovites continued.

"I apologise for my rude entrance. The door was locked, and you were arguing so loudly that you could not hear me calling from outside. You really ought to get some windows for this place." A small giggle, not confidently insane like how everyone was used to, but slightly cracked and frail. "It was when I heard Poland talking about me that I thought I ought to step in. Now you all know my little secret, I see no harm in confronting you about it myself."

Muscovites' grey and dark hands slowly lifted the faucet in front of him, so that even England and France reeled back in their chairs quite a bit, and Switzerland, perhaps out of pure habit, raised his hands in front of him in defence. Dread filled the still silent and motionless air, because none of them wanted to see what came next, or hear it - England was sure, and so was everyone –

"_Become one, da?_"


	3. Of Friendships and Ally-ships

CHAPTER TWO – _Of Friendships and Ally-ships_

"He gave you Hell, didn't he?" England could hear the shuffling and cursing of a Frenchman behind him, and dared not look back. He heard France come hobbling up behind him, and felt a rough hand brush his shoulder.

"Oui, Angleterre. Il est... Il est devinu horrible. Trop horrible, mon petit lapin..." It was unlike France to speak his own tongue with England. Toro must have hit him hard. _It's my fault, _a thought rang out inside England's head, and he tried to ignore it. _I let him go. It's my fault..._

It was frustrating, and alarming. From the moment that the Muscovites asked to become one – from the moment that he asked _anything_, England had been sure that he would fight until he received the appropriate answer. It would have been easier if everyone had banded together in that moment, been able to crush the rising conflict that came from East Europe. It would have been so much easier to bear the situation if Japan had not immediately jumped to respond with a sombre – "_Hai!_" and, of course, if Australia had not backed down as soon as she fell under threat. England ground his teeth in irritation. Australia, who had had hardly anything to trouble her, was not even prepared to fight for the rest of the world. Whatever happened to the colony days? When she would have fought to ends of the Earth for her independence? Now the whole problem, by default rested on the shoulders of Europe and therefore on the shoulders of France and England.

"This will not work," England muttered. He wasn't sure if France could hear him or not. The hand had been withdrawn. "It is simply Europe pitted against Asia. Japan has a lot of resources, and now those are available to the Muscovites. That in itself is bad news – the more power the Muscovites have the worse the situation is. Those war torn countries in the Middle East will immediately side with the people who have started this fight. No one will dare approach them for ally-ship. Half of Oceania has already surrendered. We are hopelessly outnumbered."

That was why France had left the house in the first place. The Europeans who would fight were weak and few – France, England, Italy, Eldheinman, Baltica and Poland. Italy and Eldheinman were barely civilised and could not produce guns to save their lives. Poland and Baltica had never been strong in battle. They needed help desperately, so France sought out those who _didn't _fight – or were so busy fighting that they did not notice a threat from anything that resembled Russia.

First he had found out Switzerland, who declined immediately.

"I will not fight for other people," he had said, stoutly. "When the Muscovites attack, I will defend my country with all my might." It was an unsuccessful trip, but at least France had come out unscathed. He wished Switzerland luck and walked away.

France was a very smart person. No one could doubt that. Only he could have thought that if such a changed and ruined nation like Russia was able to come out in the open and speak to everyone else – then why couldn't another?

"I am going to contact Toro," he had said. England did not argue. It could not do any harm – if Toro was unwilling to side with them, then he definitely would not side with the Muscovites. France left the building, and England did not hear from him for a week. He did not worry – France was a keen negotiator, he could still be with Toro, convincing him. Then England received a telegram from him, sent from somewhere around where Belgium used to be:

ENGLAND PLAN FAILED STOP TORO ATTACKED STOP GOT CHASED TO BELGIUM STOP

NEED HELP URGENTLY STOP

England wasted no time. In less than a day, France was returned to his country and the meeting house, bruised, scratched and disappointed. England interrogated, as he tended to his wounds.

"Why did he attack? Switzerland did not."

France winced. "He did not trust me. He immediately suspected – _A-Ow_! That we were planning to invade after winning him over. He declined the offer... _'I would rather be trampled beneath the hooves of God than ally with the likes of you!' _Those, I seem to remember were his words. We forget the change – he is not Spain anymore." France was silent afterwards, as was England. He hissed again as his tender put pressure on the wrong part of a wound. England patted him on the back.

"Give up on Toro. In fact, give up on Europe. They were all at the meeting, so they all saw the Muscovites. We can't do more than is possible." France looked at him, and England was surprised to see him teary eyed. _Does Toro mean that much to him? I always knew that he, Spain and Prussia were in some sort of group together, regardless of ally-ship... I have never felt the need for that sort of companionship, so I can't relate that easily._

_Funny things, Friendship and Ally-ship. Subtly different from each other._

"Non," he whispered. "I will go to him again. Toro is a vicious fighter, but I do not want to see him crushed by God. Surely you don't – you were familiar with him long ago, am I right?"

England's mind flashed to an image of a ruthless pirate, one who ruled the seas and ate tomatoes – proudly showing off an Armada that would be crushed by Elisabeth's privateers...

"Yes," England said, getting up from his chair, and helping France to do likewise. "But I honestly can't say that I care about what happens to him now. And I give my strongest advice to _not _return to him. I know that you two were friends, perhaps, in times gone by, but you aren't now. You have to remember that." There was a pause, after which England said quietly, "I won't force you. You are free to do as you wish, but don't expect me to bail you out again. You were warned this time."

The next day France was gone already, and England immediately regretted his words. This time he did not return for a month, but England received no telegram.

He was back now. England glanced away from his work, to see the Frenchman asleep on the sofa. He needed rest, there was no doubt, and the battle had taken its toll on him, but he made it out of the situation alive, and England was very relieved. He knew how hard a fighter Toro could be, and decided, as he listened to the ragged breathing coming from behind him, that he would not question what happened in that month once he woke. Instead, he turned his attention to what he was working on.

They still needed allies. France had been unsuccessful in finding any in Europe – and England was by no means letting him out to try again – so why not seek them elsewhere? Oceania was simply too far away, and Asia was already all on the Muscovites' side... But there was still America.

It was risky. It went against everything that the two nations had discussed, and it was certainly the wrong time to do it – (didn't Japan say that they were dealing with an uprising in Panem?) but it was necessary. England added the finishing touches to his letter.

_Dear Panem – _

_You are most likely unaware of all events taking place in the rest of the World. That is understandable, and I know it will be difficult for you to read this, but you must. The Muscovites have declared war on all who don't wish to comply with their wishes (To become a part of their empire). I, France and most of Europe are not enough. We need help. _

_I understand that a very long time ago, you and Russia had some great disagreements. You know how difficult it can be to deal with him. I should mention that he will most likely contact you himself – I don't know if he will invade you or not, but you can't let him win you over, Panem – and that you can't simply stay out of this war forever. If you do decide to join, then I beseech that you ally with Europe. Not for my sake, yours, or old times' sake – but for the sake of the World. Please. _

_I have heard from Japan (who is currently allied with the Muscovites) that you are dealing with rebellion right now. I understand if it is difficult for you to contact us immediately, but when you can, please respond, just this once. Fighting Japan and Asia will be difficult for all of us. _

_You heard me say this when I last saw you, before you shut yourself off from the rest of the World. Please come back to us, America. _

_Yours sincerely, _

_The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland – represented by England_

There came a light snore from behind England, and he looked at the sofa ruefully. France wanted to contact lost friends and throw himself into physical and emotional danger? Well, two can play at that game. England gave one last look at his ally, before draping a blanket over him and leaving the house to post his letter.

**AN: Sorry this chapter was short and practically nothing happened in it :P But sometimes you need these things to move the story along. I will be uploading another one shortly, and Panem will appear! **

**Thank you very much to my first three reviewers :D It means a lot to hear this kind of support from you!**


	4. Bathed in Red

**A/N: I'm really sorry about the slow update... I know, I said "shortly" before and this is not "shortly" at all. Sorry... I had a bit of trouble with this chapter and I am not certain that it is my best. But still, please, tell me what you think! Thank you all who have already reviewed. : )**

CHAPTER THREE _– Bathed in RED_

There was a huge pile of mail on the desk. All unchecked, and all from other districts. In front of the pile sat two more – marked "THROW AWAY" and "IMPORTANT". The important pile was significantly smaller than the throw away one. Many of the messages were being ignored. _We need more weapons to fend off Thirteen. What are you doing to stop this uprising? IF WE BURN YOU BURN WITH US._ Things were changing, fire was catching, and Panem looked on at his leader, his face impassive.

It was a miracle that President Snow was able to keep up his well-groomed, refined disposition, what with all the trouble. He sat at his desk, furiously sorting letters, his snake-like eyes narrowed in concentration. Tiredly, he raised a single hand to wipe some sweat off his brow, and shook his head in disappointment. "Things are worse than I thought," was all he said, before returning to his letters. One from Two. One from Eight. Two in a row from Three. The pile went on and on, and didn't seem to shrink in size at all. Panem yawned slightly, and turned his attention away from his president, and to the window. How long was it before the rebels reached the Capitol – where he lay now? Would the uprising be crushed like last time, or would the districts win? Did he care? His eyes slid back to Snow (who was about a quarter of the way through the pile, and was readily cursing and muttering). He ought to be on the side of the Capitol. He was on the side of the Capitol. Nations obey their leaders – that is the rule. He helped the Capitol whenever he could and did nothing to betray them... But a tiny part of him was cheering those rebels on, because maybe... Maybe they had a point. Perhaps a change in the system would do the whole country some good.

You could tell which letters were from where, after staring at nothing but them for a while. They all came in brown envelopes, some stuck with a seal, some with sello-tape and some with spit. All were printed on brown or white paper. Even the higher districts did not make the letters themselves look fancy at all. A brown envelope, a white note, a black-edged letter, another brown envelope, a cream letter with elaborate gold edges, all to the throw away pile. At least Snow knew what he was doing.

_Wait. A _cream _letter? With gold designs? _Panem looked back at Snow who was already seven letters ahead of the elaborate one, and sorting them by the second. "Hey!" the nation cried. Snow briefly looked up, the stress and annoyance evident on his face.

"What is it, Panem, do you realise how busy –"

"What's that cream letter? The fancy one? It's not from one of the districts." Snow checked in the throw away pile, and fished it out in a moment.

"This one?" Panem nodded, eyes wide. Snow threw it unceremoniously back on the pile marked THROW AWAY. "It's not important." Panem drew back a little, reproachfulness appearing on his features. Snow continued. "It was addressed to you," he said, turning away from the nation and continuing with his sorting, a little less frantically this time. "I only need letters that are addressed to me, and that are important. We are dealing with an uprising now. Whatever that letter was, it is completely unimportant." Panem looked from pile to pile, eventually meeting the back of Snow's head, which was still turned away from him. He shrugged.

"OK. Fair enough, I suppose. We've got a lot to worry about now." Snow nodded curtly.

"Indeed," he said, picking up the THROW AWAY pile and sweeping it into a nearby incinerator. "Quite a lot."

England and France looked very similar. Both had uncombed hair and unwashed faces, and both were sporting frustrating injuries. They sat on either end of the table in the meeting house, eating dinner and despairing. The dim light in the centre flickered and danced, darkness creeping in from all sides. The place had been quite magnificent at the start of this war, but half a year of endless, pointless fighting had given both countries enough wear and tear that they did not bother to look after it. Now France looked dully at a piece of meat that shone slightly in the candlelight, and England sipped as delicately as he could from a pint of beer. He missed tea a lot.

England had called the meeting. He said that he had come up with something truly brilliant, something that could help them win the war. He was very proud of it, and very arrogant. He decided to invite France to the meeting house and tell him over dinner – supply himself with a semblance of superiority to his ally. Old rivalries never really die out.

"So," France said, thickly, beginning to prod the meal in front of him. "Have you heard from Panem yet? Is that the brilliant thing?" England shook his head, and narrowed his eyes. _Yuck. Since when did beer taste so disgusting?_

"We shouldn't have expected better. He's going through a difficult time at the moment, and you know that we aren't exactly on speaking terms right now." He tried at a smile and just about succeeded. The thought of his wonderful breakthrough helped. France abruptly stood up, clenching his fists upon the table.

"This has gone on for long enough. He can't just separate himself from the rest of the World forever, not while all this is going on –"

"He did so in the First World War," England said, calmly, still desperately trying to imagine the sour liquid he drank was pure, calming tea. "And the Second. He joined both eventually. Perhaps the same will happen now." He wondered if he should tell France now. _No, _he thought. _Let him say something that it can relate to, so it makes more sense, looks better..._

France shook his head, dirt flying from it as it moved. "Non, non, mon ami, you have been used. We can't possibly win this war without help. Europe is helpless on its own."

England slowly rose from his chair as his face darkened. He slid away from the table and glided toward France. "Do you doubt our strength, our wit?" he whispered, not threateningly or menacingly, but challenging. France stayed stubborn.

"Oui. Yes, I do, England." Their eyes met, truly met, sapphire desperate and frustrated, emerald calm and determined. England opened his mouth to retaliate, tell him that there was no place for doubt in a war like this, or call him a pushover. Only one thought – the thought that even after all this time _Panem _would not even respond to England's message – stopped him. Instead his lips curled into a smile. _Now. Now I can tell him. _

"There is a way around that," he spoke thoughtfully. "We just need to become stronger ourselves. That is why I invited you here." He walked back to his own chair and France did the same. "I have developed some weaponry. The creation has been going on since the start of the war, but none of us were sure of its power or stability." France leaned a little forward in his seat, clasping his hands together and resting his chin upon them. "We are certain now. Only the finishing touches are necessary. The weapon will be controlled on England's behalf in two weeks. I tell you now to not only bring good news, but to warn you." France drew back into his chair a little, wary of the smile that still lingered on his ally's face.

"Warn me of what, my friend?" England's eyes flashed.

"To be well out of the way, my friend. Whether you like it or not."

_Glucose Volanticus. _England could not be prouder.

The name was originally homage to one of his close friends, but no one ever had to know that. Besides, it wasn't the name that mattered. It was the damage it could do. And, England was happy to say, _Glucose Volanticus _was capable of a lot of damage – even more than the nuclear weapons that died out with Korea and Panem kept to himself.

It was some kind of mix between organic and nuclear substances, a combination of reactions. England was not sure of all the details – warfare was his forte, not science. The weapon was launched as a missile from long range and could be used in battle or on the country itself. It would sit for exactly thirteen seconds – not nearly enough for anyone to get away. The microscopic, electronic sparks that it unleashed went on for hundreds of miles in all directions – causing anything flammable to combust. The initial explosion was enough to shake the ground as much as a level 5 earthquake. It was enough to devastate a nation for months. Possibly enough to wipe a weak one out completely. The weapon was perfect. The target was perfect. One order was all it needed... Yet England stood and did nothing but think and chew his nails.

The plan had worked at the start. He used the same tactic as some old superpower, decades ago – warn the opponent of the weapon, threaten them with it, create a truce and end the War. He told the Muscovites – in person and directly, rather than those tacky leaflets America had thrown at Japan in 1945 – all he could about _Glucose Volanticus. _

"It could wipe out everything you know and love," he had said. "Simply call off everything you have done and it won't. I sincerely hope that you choose to do this." Every word was true – whilst England would like nothing better than to see something that vaguely resembled Russia cower at his feet, he did not want to unleash such a power upon him. Not yet at least – there would be a time when the masterpiece would come in great use – but not right now.

Muscovites remained completely impassive. A silence followed and England raised his eyebrows.

"Well, if you are that desperate to continue fighting –"

"A truce." England blinked in mild surprise. Muscovite's eyes were unreadable, save for one emotion... _Greed..._

The cold nation continued. "We stop fighting for a week. If no conclusion is reached by the end, then we reopen fire as we did before. You do not fire upon us without warning. We do not fire upon you without warning." The glint in his eye appeared as usual. "It makes things easier, da?"

England had to agree, it would. He smiled a thin lipped, strained smile. "Good. We start the discussions tomorrow, then." England departed for his homeland, a glimmer of hope slowly rising from the darkness.

The week slowly went on; meeting after meeting, plan after plan, ideas crumbling again and again. No compromise could be met. The Muscovites wanted everything and Japan was helping them get stronger – soon they would most likely be as strong as France. England was starting to worry, whether he liked it or not. _There is no danger, _he reminded himself. _No pain for anyone for the week. Just come to a conclusion. _

Finally day six was reached and now England stood with his army on the edge of the Muscovites' realm, waiting, watching, and worrying. _It will be fine, _he consoled himself. _There is still no danger. You'll come to a conclusion today. _But the more hours went by, the less sure of this England became. Scary questions began to chew slowly at the insides of his brain.

_Suppose we don't come to a conclusion? Then what? I can't fire unless fired upon – but what if it's too late by then? This is the Muscovites and Japan – who's to say they haven't got something up their sleeve? And what if the truce is broken prematurely? I will be taken completely off guard. And then there's that greedy look I saw in his eyes... What if he's after the _Glucose Volanticus_? What on Earth am I going to do?!_

England was slowly starting to regret asking France to stay out of the situation. He now felt more vulnerable than ever.

The nation glanced back at his troupes. All armed, all on their guard, but none of them on the attack. The control team for the super weapon was there as well. _You still have that, _he consoled himself. _If the worst does come to the worst, all you have to do is yell for them to fire. _

_There won't be any problems, anyway. You'll just reach a conclusion and end this war. This silly war that hasn't been anything really, nothing on that Religion War, or on World Wars One and Two. You have nothing to worry about..._

"England! Mr England, sir!"

_Nothing... Nothing at all..._

England turned slowly to see the general hurrying towards him. "What?" he asked softly. Here was something to take his mind off this unbearable waiting.

_Nothing. Accept it. Nothing._

"The home guard, sir – they've discovered Russian planes on the radar – armed ones, too –"

_No...Thing... _

"We've ordered a retreat – you have to come in the plane, sir, now –"

_At... All..._

There was a moment of utter emptiness that echoed inside England's mind. He was silent, completely silent, and numb. Slowly he felt his mouth open, close, and open again. He let himself see one glimpse of his general's stricken face, of the empty space behind him – and thoughts tumbled over him, enveloping and blunting his senses.

_They've attacked. They've broken the truce. They have committed a war offence. I can attack now. I can't attack. I should be in England, protecting my country, rather than standing here in this cold, stupid, _insane _land, they broke the truce, they broke the truce, at least my soldiers are all safe, what do I do, I can't just leave, Muscovites is a stinking, dirty rascal, why has he attacked, what kind of weaponry is on those damned planes, they broke the truce, they broke the truce, I can fire, I can fire, I can fire, kill, annihilate, destroy, I can fire...!_

"Damn it," he hissed, "Fire, damn it...!" His mind was ablaze with one thought: _Muscovites must die._ He raised his voice, screaming into his communicator to the control team –

"FIRE, DAMMIT!"

There was complete silence for two minutes. The softly whistling wind swam around England and no one else, creating the only sound in the cold landscape. For a moment England supposed that the control team had decided not to obey the order.

Slowly, so, so gradually, a line of men in Russian outfits led by a tall, warmly clad gun-bearer came into view from behind the mist.

And then, all of a sudden, the sound was taken by screaming whistles, as the Muscovites' and England's heads all turned toward the sky – and three thousand miles away, England's last hope burned in a small incinerator marked with the Capitol Seal.

**Historical note: The thing about America chucking leaflets at Japan. Before the Nuclear Bombing of Japan, American ships showered Nagasaki, Hiroshima and other places that they were considering bombing with leaflets warning the civilians of the upcoming attack that would take place if they did not surrender. Of course there were other warnings, but not to the civilians themselves. These letters specifically advised them to evacuate. **

**I tried to make the chapter somewhat relevant to that kind of warfare. I hope that it had the right effect. **

**Thanks for reviewing ~**


	5. Dreams

Chapter 4 – Dreams

_First the whistles come and blatant confusion takes over all the Muscovites who now stand with their weapons raised. The noise means that the bomb hasn't dropped yet. The whistling gets louder. _Glucose Volanticus _is getting closer. Some Muscovites start to retreat, but the nation himself stays._

_Then – when England is sure that his eardrums are going to implode from the noise – the whistling stops, leaving a deadly echo. _

_He breathes in, closes his eyes. A soft thump is heard at his feet. _

_And then his eyes open and all he can see are fire and red. Screams fill the air around as the powerful explosion rends the land in two. He stares, paralyzed and horror struck. His eyes slide up to the victim of all this torture. _

_The effect of his wonderful, glorious super weapon is astonishing. The former power before him wobbles on his legs a little, his mouth slowly opening to let out a moan. Blood drips from his ears, his mouth, his nose and he grips onto his gun for support. His scarf is dark crimson and his whole form trembles violently in a way that England has never seen before. Skin starts to flake off like paper from the flesh (are these symptoms familiar?).He hears another gasp from the Russian, this time causing him to properly double over, drop his gun and spit blood. Another hit, in another part of the nation. That was what he planned, right? _

_England kneels in front of the spluttering man, eyes wide and horrified, yet cold as the air around them. "Speak." _

_It's all he can think of to say. He regrets it later. Muscovites opens his mouth to speak. _

"_It's truly wonderful."_

_What? That's not what he says. Not at all, right? "No. Say that again, the right way."_

"_It has the ability to cause extreme devastation – perhaps even wipe out a nation."_

_The whistles start again and all goes white. No, not quite – there is a table, some chairs and a man in a scarf standing in front of him._

_That faucet. Raised high above the man's head, a threat to anyone else in this room, not helped at all by the manic grin that lies behind it. "Now..." says the grin. _

_Now he has to do it. Now's the time to do it. _

"_Become one, da –"_

_BANG. Suddenly, the calm and crazed façade slips off the tall man's face, and is replaced by utter horror and intense pain. England stands up and walks to the now shivering form of his enemy. _

"_Yes... How does it feel? Speak." _

_The man gargles, but doesn't speak. England narrows his eyes. "No. Say that again, the right way." _

_The eyes of the dying man before him glow a little. They change. They go red, green, orange, brown, finally resting on bright blue. Something vile twists in England's stomach. Then the blue eyed man does speak. _

"_Damn you England! Do you have any idea what I'm going through here?!" A soft whistle starts to sound in the distance. _

_England freezes. The man continues and suddenly the surroundings of the two nations disappear. The whistling is getting louder and louder. England tries to grip a table that isn't there anymore for support, tries to block out the noise, because he _knows that voice...

"_You didn't just watch your brother die, slowly! You didn't feel what I did. That horror at the unfairness, that true and utter betrayal of trust. They KILLED him, England... Oh, Christ, England, they killed him..." _

_The words spill from England's mouth. He knows this conversation off by heart. _

"_I... I loved Canada as well..." The man before him starts to get up as well as England, shakily, but surely. _

"_No. You barely even knew his name." How is that man standing? How is he? He's weak, remember! That was why he targeted him in the first place! "What has happened to this World, England? How did everyone become this... Heartless? Beastly? What if we become like this, England? What will you do if I become like this – someone who can stand by and watch as a country dissolves itself?"_

_England turns away, shivering in dread. "No, no, no, I'm not saying it, I'm not –"_

"_Yes..." The man before him hisses the word. The eyes are no longer blue. He advances, step by step; drip by drip of blood still clinging to him and for the first time in that long – England feels fear – _

"_You know what you are, da? You are more than what I thought you were. I underestimated you sorely, you..." The man's hands are around his throat and the whistling is deafening –_

_Now England finds himself in a quiet garden, all alone. His own, in fact, his own as it was centuries ago. There isn't a blade out of place – each hedge neatly trimmed, each flower bed kept in perfect condition and bursting with roses - beautiful, British roses. He is sitting, he notices, on a patio outside his house, at a garden table with a pot of tea. Ivy crawls up the walls of the house behind – it is not a grand house, but it is by no means a cottage, just a simple, sophisticated detached suburban house. England likes it, he decides. It is familiar and very homely – it even smells like home. Nice and secluded, as everyone else sits inside their houses, relaxing a little. The war is over, and there is nothing to worry about. England sighs and shakes the dust and dirt out of his hair. He strives to ignore his own outfit – his war uniform, slightly spattered with red – and succeeds by concentrating on a now gently blowing breeze. The tea in the pot ripples._

_Is there anyone there? He has to hear a voice. Any voice. _

"_Speak."_

_No sound, except the breeze. He does not say the next line just yet. He waits, anticipating. Then the sound of whistles starts up, fast and loud. Panic jumps through him, before he reminds himself that the weapon won't hit him; it is aimed at the Muscovites. Those whistles won't hit him, he knows that, but still he doesn't like it. _

"_No. Say that again, the ri–"_

_Then the whistles and the weapon hit him, assaulting like a bucket of cold water. _

_Now it's just darkness. He can't see a man in a scarf and – thank God! No whistles. _

_But there is something there, he knows it. _

"_Speak." _

"_Ha-ha… It's sweet…"_

_The funny thing is, this _is _the right way. But still…_

"_No. Say that again, the right way." _

_It takes a while for the darkness to be able to respond. The sound of spitting blood arrives, but no whistling. England is glad. _

"_You know what you are, da?" _

Yes, _he thinks. _Yes, I know what I am.

"_You are more than what I thought you were. I underestimated you sorely, you monster." _

_There. That's it. _

_Wait – _

"_Réveillez-vous, Angleterre... Réveillez..."_

_What is that voice? Is it right? _

"_No," England mumbles, drearily and drowsily. "Say that... Again..." _

"_Dear God, England... To wipe out another nation like that... Monstre!"_

_And then, unsure whether he is in his dream or in real life (are they really so different?) England responds: _

"_I know." _

**Please don't hate me for writing a dream chapter. Sometimes you just have to...**

**Thanks for reviewing! I will update very soon, as I know it must be frustrating to receive nothing to move the plot forwards in an exciting way. Every drama needs a dream sequence. Or so I have heard. I hope I did it justice! **


	6. Greed and Fear

Chapter 5 – Some thoughts on Greed and Fear

England glanced upward, at the dark, damp and slightly dripping ceiling. As a splat of green liquid dropped on his face, he packed up his embroidery, deciding he did not want it to be ruined by all this grime. He could do it later, when he could be bothered to move somewhere in his home that wasn't damp, cold or miserable. Instead, he sat alone with nothing but the chair, the table, a little food and his thoughts. The embroidery was still there, but England was sure he would snap if he did any more of that, damp or no damp.

It would be far easier, he decided, to bear it if he were doing something. Not embroidery or cooking, but something serious, that _must_ be done so that these little whining thoughts – dreams, even – could easily take a backseat to the bigger problems. England liked problems. He always had trouble balancing real things like warfare with his emotions, and problems helped him focus. Embroidery, he had realised recently, did the exact opposite.

In the midst of the dripping and dim English light, the phone rang. England did not hesitate to pick it up, but he took it slowly. _Anything to kill time._ "Hello."

"Angleterre... You have to get over here now. There's a World meeting – held in my country – to discuss the end of the war. You are required to attend."

England stood up. "Any reason why you have chosen now of all times to tell me this? I might have prepared myself a little. And since when do we hold meetings to discuss the end of wars?"

There was a short pause, and when France next spoke his voice shook with suppressed frustration.

"Mon Dieu, England. I believe it is you who owes me an explanation. Now, if you please."

Poor France. He had no warning of any part of the situation. England would certainly want to know everything, were he in France's position.

"What is there to explain, France?" England spoke softly and emotionless. "We won the war. I wiped out the Muscovites with my weapon. What else do you need to know?"

There was silence again at the other end of the line, and England could easily imagine France's pained and shocked expression. The question hung in the air still, and England provided answers in his head.

_Why I didn't tell you? How I was able to create such a weapon? How I can talk of wiping out another nation – a feat that has not been repeated for half a century – without so much as batting an eyelid? _

_How the bloody hell do you expect me to answer those questions, France? _

Closing his eyes, briefly, England walked to the door and dusted himself off. "Apologies, my friend. I will join you shortly."

...

France seemed to have gone out of his way to make his home look presentable for the meeting. The house was nearly completely free of dust, and all of his belongings were neatly placed on shelves or in cupboards. The rooms smelt vaguely of air-freshener – cheap air freshener, England noted as he passed each one along the corridor. No one passed with him and he heard no sound around except for his boots clicking against the wooden floor. He was either very early – he was very close to France geographically, after all – or late, everybody else waiting for him. England figured, with an uneasy feeling in his stomach, that the latter was most likely.

Slowly, as he passed still more rooms along this never-ending corridor; he heard the sounds of distant murmurings. The extra sound came as a bit of a surprise, as he had been used to this silent building for the time beforehand, but he listened, quickening his pace a little. There were definitely voices, sounding from inside a room on the left, three doors away from where he stood now. England made for the room, but stopped before entering. From his position, he could decipher the words.

"Well, _I _think it's a disgraceful idea. You only bring yourself down to his level, by doing this."

_Australia. She's free now, _England thought, a little cheerily. _Good for her. _

"Don't be ridiculous," another voice scoffed. Eldheinman. "We can't simply let him roam free with such material."

"We did it many times," called another voice. With a jolt, England recognised it as Japan – the other opponent of Europe. What on Earth was he doing here? Weren't the allies against him discussing? "If you remember the last time a weapon capable of maximum destruction was created. You did nothing to take nuclear bombs away from Panem, and now he still has them." There was distinct bitterness in Japan's voice.

"What?" Italy. "I thought that the district with nuclear weapons was eliminated."

"Nein," Eldheinman corrected his friend. "That district turned out to have survived. It's been revolting against the Capitol for weeks now."

"When was the last time a nation was killed?" Baltica now chipped in. "Many have died as a result of accidents. Those who were killed were not killed single handed, or instantly. Many simply faded. I am with Eldheinman on this one." There were several murmurs of agreement, and England felt his heart racing.

"No!" Australia again. "Don't you _see? _The fighting has just stopped – yes, at great cost, but it has still stopped! Why start unnecessary warfare? Do we want to lose any more of us – after there are so few already? Think! How many of the people who have been around all this time still meet like us?"

The question was heavy in the scented air around them. Everyone was left with the thought, including England.

It was a point, if anything. In general, a nation could die in two ways. The first was by great natural devastations, like the ones that took most of Africa away, and the second was by political changes and developments – some that demolished whole cultures. Canada and Prussia had suffered these fates. Both of the ways were tragic to view, and thankfully seldom. There were anomalies though – a nation could in fact die by taking their own life, and really, truly meaning to do it. The result was eerie. The nation simply ceased to exist, abruptly and seemingly without cause. Atlantis, the old legend, was the only example of this. England had never met her, and never knew why she decided to do it.

And then there was this way – a way which everybody knew was plausible, but not a single state dared to try – by killing another nation in war, actually dissolving it in one fell swoop. There had not been an example of this until now.

So many nations, all gone with history. England narrowed his eyes. He saw it now – he had seen it a while ago, he just tried to deny it. These members were not here to discuss the war. They were here to discuss him and his use of _Glucose Volanticus. _They were here to discuss how to be rid of a potential problem.

"That's right," Eldheinman said. "The weapon's power is astonishing. It was able to wipe out the Muscovites, and the Muscovites were once one of the great World powers."

"Once," Japan pointed out, quietly.

"Such a weapon," continued Eldheinman "Is simply not suited for England's hands. The damage he could cause with it speaks for itself."

Before anger could hit England in the core, he noticed something and suddenly froze. That tone in the German's voice.

_Greed. _

_That's all they want, _England thought, horror seeping into him. _That's all they want. All they want is my weapon. That's all they ever cared about. _That did it. England pushed open the door of the room.

The other nations inside jumped and glanced up at England. The expressions were different on each face, but all – even France – held one emotion in common: _distrust._ England surveyed the room and glanced to all its inhabitants coldly. "Good day, gentlemen. I apologise for my lateness. I did not realise that there was a meeting today."

The air hung heavy around England as he moved toward the table and seated himself right next to France, as he always did. No one made a sound. England wondered, as he took in each and every face and expression silently, eyes moving from person to person, if he was the victim of others plotting his demise and downfall or – (his eyes lingered on Eldheinman a little, and tried to find the evil and malice in his rigid features) if_ he _was the one in a position of power, the one who everyone feared. England liked that option. _It is better to be feared than loved._

He leaned back in his chair, smiling a broad, handsome smile. "I'm sure I've missed quite a lot. I was confused from the start about why we were holding a meeting..." He turned his head to France, who held a completely appalled expression, and kept the smile attached to his face. "I mean, we don't usually discuss the _end _of wars, do we? And if the losing side is dead – then what is there to discuss?"

There. The comment was very effective; France seemed to choke a little. England congratulated himself inwardly, before searching everyone again – this time searching solely for greed. They were all out to get him, weren't they? He needed to make sure that he was the one in control, and that he had the most power.

The search was successful, each face held the same, clear and striking expression, the one which warmed England on the inside. _This was where he belonged. This was his place of power. _The expression was undeniable fear.

...

The meeting continued and ended, with not a word spoken of England's weapon or the Muscovites after the nation's entrance. England started to return home. He got as far as the exit of France's home, before he was stopped.

"Wait, England."

England turned, eyes glazed with dull power. "What is it, France?" The addressed took three swift steps toward him, glaring down at the smaller nation. England raised his eyes to meet France's, arms folded in front of his chest. France's glare became more pronounced.

"Those other nations won't speak to you about it, out of fear," he hissed. "I know you better. We may be allies, England, but I will fiercely tell you that what you have done is wrong! Despicable! You will explain yourself, immediately!"

England thought about maintaining his pleasant demeanour, but then thought better of it. He scowled at France, instead. "Your lack of trust and true ungratefulness toward me is just as despicable. I won the war for us, didn't I? Why does it matter to you that the Muscovites was killed? Face it, France, we all wanted him dead. You should thank me, if it means that much to you, for preventing _you _from doing it."

France was more than speechless. "Angleterre..." he breathed. "I cannot believe that I did not realise this before. You are a real monster. Were you always this ruthless, keeping it bottled up for centuries, or you have changed since I last saw you? Either way, a relationship cannot work between us."

England looked at France in mild confusion and irritation. "Are you saying, then, France, that you no longer wish to be my ally? We are properly breaking ties – over this?" There was no emotion in his voice, none but genuine confusion and slight incredulity.

France shook his head, meaningfully. "You don't understand," he muttered. "I thought you might have done, considering all that you have seen. But you don't."

There was a long silence, one that stretched and writhed with so many conflicted feelings. France held England in a stare of nothing but pity – no hurt for any loss of friendship, or desperation. England disliked that expression – he was the one in power, he was the one with the weapon. He still looked at his long-time friend, impassive and cold. The door of France's house was open; England had opened it on his way out, and had not closed it as France stopped him from leaving. Now a chilled wind moaned from outside, causing both men to shiver slightly. For a moment, the total blank expression on England's face vanished, replaced with a reaction of sorts to the cold, and he looked outside. Turning back to France, he asked simply: "So, that's a yes, then?"

He did not wait for a response from the nation behind him. Instead, nodded and waved a little to him, walked out of the house and closed the door carefully behind him.

...

England was feared. He just knew it. He had to be.

True, he hadn't seen people cowering, and as far as he knew, leaders didn't shudder to hear his name. But he knew that he was an object of power and fear because no nation – not France, Eldheinman, Japan, the Muscovites or anyone – spoke to him. He was as alone as he always had been, but this time, it wasn't repulsion that kept the allies and nations away. It was fear. He had the power, as they all had seen, to bring a nation to dust, and he had the ruthlessness to do it as well. France did not stop being associated with England because he despised him, or thought he was horrible. Those sorts of emotions had no place in international relationships. He had broken the alliance purely because he was afraid of what England could do to him.

_Good, _England thought, a hand shielding the embroidery he had given into and returned to continuing, _if they are too afraid to come near me then I am completely and utterly safe from greed. Right? _

Right. He was always right – well, nearly always right. _Definitely _right this time.

England stretched back in his chair a little, slight fringes of worry ebbing away at his sides.

_I read something, somewhere about greed and fear. What was it? _

A ghostly figure slowly came into England's peripheral vision, as his eyes remained trained on the fabric in front of him. The figure sat in the armchair in front of him. To England's unfocused eye, it seemed red. _It's a hallucination. I've been getting them from time to time. If I ignore it then it will go away. _He only turned his head up to it when it spoke in a drawling and somewhat familiar voice.

"Really, England. You are missing the point _so _much. Simply attack the others and overpower them."

England stopped sewing for a moment. He slowly rolled his eyes up to look at his newcomer in the glittering, ruthless green eyes he had. He was, indeed, red – a long red coat with handsome cuffs and collars, a loose shirt and a gleaming cutlass by his side. England instantly recognised himself in his greatest splendour, his pirate form and his Empire. The vision sat, lazily eyeing England, snorting in contempt.

England said nothing, and made no reaction but to give a _Tsk! _in response.

The British Empire leant forward, grinning like an animal. "Come now, don't you remember what _you _said to your favourite colony? 'If you stand with great power, but you do not use it, then they will declare war on you!' Your own words, England. Why shy away from them now?"

Still no response. England returned his attention to the sewing again, keenly ignoring the vision. The Empire continued, undeterred, yet slightly more serious.

"They will attack, eventually. It's inevitable. You have to strike before they do! If you don't, you'll never take. You may win, but you will never have the control you need. Only if you make the first move with your power – as you did so long ago, remember? – will you be successful!"

England decided to respond to this. He bit off the end of the thread he was using. "I am not," he said, calmly, "trying to rebuild an empire that ended a century ago. The pirating days are over. Accept it."

The British Empire stood up, clangs and clatters following him, making his riches audible as well as visible. "This is not piracy, my friend," he all but hissed, "This is pure survival in warfare. Greed and fear, England! Think! It is the root of all fighting, and everybody knows it. It's how you became an Empire. It is how many wars started. Your weapon and feat has caused all the other nations to feel it overpoweringly; soon they will use it against you, and at this rate you will be completely unprepared. It infects everybody, including you." Something similar to pity flashed across the eyes of the vision. "Except that in you it has been replaced by power and paranoia."

There was silence in the room – there had always been silence, of course – broken only by the sound of England continuing with the mind-numbing and relentless embroidery. The empire strode to the door and watched his future counterpart from there, for a moment. In the end, he sighed and shook his head.

"Either way, you are going to end up in war," he said, matter-of-factly. "And it's pathetic how obvious it is that you are going to lose." England still made no response – was it any other day, he would definitely have, but the embroidery seemed to have numbed his reflexes and reactions. He made a soft noise of acknowledgement before turning and nodding toward the hallucination.

"Indeed. Goodbye." The pirate left, and took all of his glory with him. England discarded the textiles and rested his head on the arm of his chair, ignoring as more damp splats landed around him on the carpet, from the ceiling. He fell into unconsciousness, emotionless and blank-faced.

_How close am I to breaking? _He thought, drearily.

...

"Then it is settled," France packed up the documents, scooping the paperwork with his and England's signature on it into his delicate hands. His composure had been very well gained since the war ended. His hair had a little more bounce in it, for a start. "We are officially at war with each other. I will not surrender until you withdraw your ownership of the _Glucose Volanticus._ All clear?"

England nodded.

France turned around, facing the door, to go out. "I'll see you on the battlefield, then. I will not go alone. I don't think I can say the same for you."

France shut the door silently behind him, leaving England alone again on this bleak and dripping island, alone as he always had been, alone, powerful and greedy and fearful.

England could only agree, wholeheartedly.


	7. Life's a Circus

Life's a Circus

**AN: Warning: Character death. **

Outside England's house, the rain threw itself upon a sleeping city, the stars blocked out by clouds, creating a dark and howling shroud over London. Now early morning, England sat on a sofa in his living room, unable to sleep.

_OK, _He thought, yet again that night. _OK, just weigh it out in my mind. Work it out, once more. _He took a few deep breaths. 

_Right - first of all there's me. _

England smiled. _Of course._

_Then there's France. _

England's smile faltered, just a little.

_And then there's Eldheinman, Italy, Baltica, Poland, Romano and pretty much the rest of Europe. Australia is neutral. Switzerland is also neutral, as always. Eldheinman, Italy and Romano send weaponry to France and stop me from invading. Poland and Baltica fight properly, alongside France._

England sighed shakily. He had it worked out now. _If I don't know where I stand in this battle,_ he thought,_ then there's no hope of me winning, now, is there? _He rested his head in his hands, doing his best to contain a wail of despair. _I've never been pitted against so many nations at once, with no one on my side. I have no idea how to fight this war. What options do I have? _He could, of course, surrender, and escape the problem entirely.

But then – then those other _greedy_ nations would have his weapon, and they would certainly use it against him! How could he possibly risk that? And besides, he _liked _this position of power, which destroying the Muscovites had given him. It made him feel special_. _Then there was the undeniable fact – England was never the sort to back down. His pride would not let him do that, in any situation. When had he ever given himself up without a fight?

The only other option was to go to battle, as he was now. England glanced at the ceiling, desperately keeping his emotions in control. _Keep calm and carry on. _He had gone for very long periods with no allies. He hadn't succumbed then. It was certainly not the first time he had gone against France, and right now he was the most powerful nation in Europe, even without a mighty empire. Then there was that blasted weapon...

England turned his head to the window, plastered with water and fallen leaves, and decided to surrender to sleep with the thought that he could definitely come out of this war in one piece, if not win it.

...

"So, Switzerland has decided to join your side? Good for him." _Damn, _England thought, _the last thing I need is yet another enemy. Ah well, Switzerland doesn't have many assets right now, I suppose, he hasn't been too connected to other nations. _

France nodded, and England made a quiet and thoughtful sound. There was a pause, as England stared, not at France but at the Union Jack on the wall behind him. Nothing was said, for a moment. The tension had not been reduced in the slightest, with the declaration of war.

"I will try my hardest," France suddenly whispered, "To be as hard and rough on you as possible. My allies can say the same."

"As can I," England responded, slightly surprised at the lack of emotion in his voice. "And, considering both of our positions, that works out better in my favour, if I say so myself, France." France nodded, tightly and crisply.

"I know. I do not underestimate your abilities... Or your limits." The twinge of pain that subtly lined France's words was not lost on the island nation that stood before him. England leaned in close toward his enemy, releasing his last empathetic words.

"I beg you to reconsider declaring war on me. I will not hesitate to use all the technology I can. Think of your people – the danger you are putting them in."

France's stare hardened. "I am not a weak state, or a handful of anarchists like the Muscovites. Even your superior technology will not level or bring down my country."

"Oh?" England suddenly found himself smiling broadly, much to his astonishment and slight disgust. "I can't wait to test that theory."

The colour very nearly drained from France's face; his eyes widened a notch and a few beads of sweat glistened on his brow. England chose to ignore these signs of weakness. He stilled his expression and made his final point. "We will fight in Africa."

France was clearly taken aback. "_Africa_? You wish to use that dead wasteland of a continent for our battlefield?"

England nodded. "Yes. Think, France. We will both be ruthlessly sending out attacks. Africa itself is damaged beyond repair, so no amount of our weaponry could affect it. I would hate to ruin the soil of either of our lands, if our aim is purely to fight each other and each other's men." He smiled, warmly, desperately showing that he cared.

The effect worked. France was clearly in favour of the idea. "I must say that I cannot fault that idea. We will assemble in Nairobi in one week for our first battle, then." France walked toward the door. "_Au revoir, _England. I will see you on the battlefield. Be sure to bring plenty of sun-cream." And with a door-slam, the man was gone.

After a long silence of England standing alone in the house, he gave himself an order.

_Forget it. Forget your morals and humanities. Forget your emotions and your friendships. All that matters now is that you win. Throw yourself into battle, don't even think about hesitating. Ruthless. Reckless. Relentless. The three 'R's – the keys to victory. Forget everything and you'll have all of Europe at your feet... _

What was he famous for? Bravery, that was what. Bravery, stubbornness and pride. Even if it was suicidal guts like the Light Brigade, 600 in the valley of death, or true heroics like the Battle of Britain, or the Religion war, that fateful war that took so many countries that he defended in and attacked in for the longest time, beside America. He could be brave if he wanted, now. He could charge into battle like always, ruthless, reckless and relentless. No cowardice. No mercy. No restrictions. _The African desert stretches for miles. _

England nodded, and felt a small, cruel and excited smile work its way toward his lips. He felt giddy. He couldn't see very clearly. The world around him seemed to spin, slowly. He smiled more and more – he was going to win all of this, he could rip them all to pieces and destroy them with ease, his weapon could engulf anything, if he wanted it to – closing his eyes and breathing happily and deeply. _It's gonna be great! _

...

The whole _No Morals _attitude did have some backfires – one being that the plan was very basic. They would be sending out _Glucose Volanticus _attacks throughout the first battle against the Swiss, the Baltics and the Poles. England could orchestrate as troops fought and offices at home sent the bombs to France, Italy and Germany. Other than that, and the soldier formation, the only plan was to fight as viciously as possible. The more experienced soldiers were equipped with recently designed mini grenades that held some things in common with ancient chemical weapons, but bore more resemblance to small but effective _Glucose Volanticus_, to be used on field. The English Army were ready and prepared.

After arriving in Africa and having a short day of rest, the troops, led by England himself, had marched to the battlefield itself, alone. There was hardly any vegetation or wildlife in the whole area, the ground did not rise or lower in any way. It stood, flat as a board, almost a dust plane of a desert. The heat was not as intense as England remembered, but it was hot enough for the soldiers to start sweating in their heavy jackets, and for the wavering and lilting breeze (echoing so melancholic around the walls of heat in this dry, dry desert, not a puddle of water anywhere) to be a cool relief. The opposing troops were nowhere to be seen.

Half an hour passed. Some heavy jackets were taken off and tied round the waists of the hot soldiers, but England stayed, alert and fully uniformed, hands gripping his gun, his grenades, his programmer and his control.

Then – after forty-five still minutes of near silence and no action, figures started to appear on the horizon, marching toward the bare and unblemished field. Slowly, painfully slowly they appeared to England and he could identify them – Switzerland leading an army of buttoned up military men, each armed with a rifle and apparently nothing else. The Poles and Baltics were led by their corresponding nations, blending in with each other in their similar complexions and uniforms. Their weaponry seemed more advanced – armed with miniature grenades and guns, though it was hard to see if they carried anything else. The armies assembled before the English – outnumbering them horrendously – and prepared themselves, briefly. The first shot was awaited.

Then – with a deafening POW a shot was fired from a Swiss rifle, and the battle began with a roar. England remained near the back at first, fighting off any attacks with his gun and aiming for clusters with his grenades but mainly programming attacks on the nations from home, giving the special pre-planned orders to send the bombs to certain cities. Around him, the battle raged, furious and vile. The English were pumped with an empty desire to win, all respect and morals zapped out of them by propaganda and money, causing them to fight with a demon-like strength and spirit. It made England proud to watch them. The enemies were obviously prepared for the worst, defending plenty of moves with great skill, and sending out attacks that matched the English's – simply by numbers, if not strength. The bloodshed was unbelievable, the casualties uncountable. Here he was, right in the heat of it.

A small beep came from the programmer. The first lot of missiles were all out, and the second were not ready yet. He couldn't send any more _Glucose Volanticus, _at least for now. In the meantime, he would have to use his gun... No problems there. Now he could move properly to the frontlines. With a sneer, he clicked his gun twice and charged to the enemies, firing shots viciously and rapidly.

"England?"

_Don't listen! Don't listen; you're having far too much fun! _Using a gun was far quicker and easier than the weapon. Not as mentally satisfying, but good, nonetheless.

"England –!"

POW. POW. Two more hits. A beep from his programmer told England that the next lot of missiles were ready. He smiled, this was even more perfect! He programmed a couple more _Glucose Volanticus _attacks, as soon as he was able. He still continued to shoot, grin widening with each spurt of blood, with each cloud of smoke he saw rising from the battlefield and as he saw his enemies crumple to the ground, and _did he know that voice? _

"What –"

He did know it. He glared into the air in front of him, gripping his gun with more strength than was necessary and releasing bullet after bullet, again and again.

"Are you –"

Couldn't that voice just _shut up?! _Where was the man, anyway? He was on this battlefield. He wasn't England. England had to be fighting him, then, so why couldn't he see him?

"Doing –"

POW. POW. POW, POW, POW. The guns were loud as ever, but the voice still rang out. The man must be close, then. England held his opponents in his steely glare, still grinning as much as he could. He noticed them as some lowered their weapons. He took advantage immediately – a fighter who lets his guard down does not deserve to live – shooting each one down within moments - but considered how strange it was that he was the only one still furiously sending out the attacks. The other side was now completely silent.

Perhaps the strange voice was behind England... He hadn't looked there at all...

"_England?!_"

He turned, jerkily, gun still held in his arms. As soon as the man came into his view, the whole African battlefield fell silent as a rock.

"What are you doing, England?"

England's hands shook. He opened his mouth to say something, but words completely failed him. Instead, he turned away from the asker, still holding his gun as tightly as he could, and surveyed the landscape. He slowly took in the sights of utter tear and destruction, blows inflicted by him and him only. The blood didn't cover the area – the sand had absorbed or covered most of it. What he could see very clearly was the amount of dead soldiers – dead by his own, the weapon or just by all those bullets. Baltica, Poland, Switzerland were held together, sick and gasping. The weapon truly did take their toll on them. Now, they stood gaping in amazement and recognition at this man – this one man who may well have been their saviour, this one man who could stop England...

England looked from the dead field to the man, then back to the field. His eyes were no longer rolling or demented. The glee was completely gone. The soft wasteland breeze moaned, and England shook his head, as one sound escaped his chapped lips. He chuckled, quietly and roughly. The sound would have been inaudible, was there anything else to hear. The chuckle grew, slowly, as his eyes searched and feasted on the whole area, his whole body trembling and his laughter filling the empty land. He laughed, now past chuckling, but he did not laugh from insanity - his eyes were slowly clearing of the fog, he saw now – _truly _saw what was happening, what he was doing, and he was laughing in response to that. All those who were alive were silent as he continued, and all the dead looked at England with all those expressions he _hated – _repulsion, fear, greed, pity. There was no way out now – he had known from the start that it was a dead end to run into the war like that, and now he found himself up against it. He couldn't live now.

_Look what I've gone and done. Look at how I've messed things up. _

England turned around again, to face the man. His face was oddly made up, weird patterns lining the features that were frozen with shock and horror. England swallowed all of his laughs, instead smiling at the strange and so familiar person before him. He looked down at his gun. Slowly, still shaking (with mirth? Horror? Fear? Guilt?) he spoke, loudly and clearly.

"Well, well... Fancy seeing you here, America."

He hadn't noticed. He had been too busy, doing something stupid and senseless to realise that he'd changed, despite the many times he said he wouldn't. He was more than a monster, or a demon. He was a nation. He had power.

He looked back at the damage, again. With a heaving sigh, he brought the heavy gun to his own bedraggled head, eyes still not leaving the man's face.

Pow.

Not smiling anymore, his last thought was of how _quiet _the bullet was.

**Reviews are very much appreciated, especially as I don't generally write deaths. Was it alright? Thanks to all those who have faved and reviewed! :-) **


End file.
